Mortuary
by You'llBeOkAnyway
Summary: Jess works in the mortuary in every single Hunger Game. She is the last to see the tributes before they get shipped and can't help feeling that her job can get a little lonely sometimes.
1. Chapter 1

Darkness creeps in from the corners of the land and the situation is worsened by the milky fog bathing the whole arena. Night vision goggles are no use; the mist is so thick that you can't even see your own feet. The game maker smiles wickedly from his seat, "Let's see how they get out of this one," he says maliciously. The head of weather related effects nods wearily and thickens the viscous air reluctantly. We all watch as the tributes stumble blindly into each other's paths. I inhale sharply as the male tribute from district seven is struck hard in the skull with a knife. The knife is long and sharp; it belongs to the girl from district five. Her name is Julia, she never misses. The knife is stuck in the boy's head and Julia has to tug hard before it become dislodged, leaving the boy's head spurting crimson for all to see. She smiles disturbingly at the camera and even licks the blade of the knife clean for the people of Panem to squeal at. She's smart, she's clever. The cannon fires and we send in a hovercraft to collect the body. Julia runs back into the mist until we cannot see her any longer.

They send the body up to us, in the Hunger Games mortuary, the wound is clotted and then sent to me, I clean the bodies and store them until the district collect them and bury or cremate them.

The boy stares up with glassy eyes, filling the room with unnerving silence. I breathe shallow, incomplete breaths. My fingers go to his eyelids; I slide them down, as if he were sleeping. Then I slowly strip him of his clothes. In his pocket I find two matches and a crumpled photograph of a girl, "This must be your token," I whisper quietly to the boy. "Is this your girlfriend? Or maybe she is your sister? She's so very beautiful." My voice is choked with tears; I am sure that whoever this girl is she will miss him more than anything. It is true though, her beauty; the girl in the photograph smiles a curious smile, her face is young and unspoiled and her hair falls down in soft blonde curls, her arms are outstretched as if to say; "Come closer, I need to see you in the light…"

I place the photograph down on the bench. The boy is now naked. I scrub his body down until the skin is pink and raw and then place it in a zipper bag. I pull the zip up slowly until I reach his face, and then, as a final sign of respect I press my three middle fingers of my right hand to my mouth and press them down onto his mouth. "Goodbye," I say in a gentle tone. I jerk the zip over his face and wheel the body of the boy into the space with the plate inscribed with DISTRICT 7 hanging overhead.


	2. Chapter 2

The crumpled photo drifts towards the door, like it wants to escape. It looks at me helplessly from the many torn lines and scorch marks it bears. It has withstood the thousands of folds, the sights it's seen, the endless touching just to make sure she's still there, still watching over him.

"Let me out," it says silently. "Let me go."

And I obey the girl's face, spattered with tiny droplets of blood and I fumble at the latch holding the door back. The cold metal twists and the photograph sends me one last smile before clinging onto the air and sailing towards home. I sigh, not of relief but of hope. The crackly radio strapped to my waist buzzes, it's like a parent saying; "Oh Jess, you're hopeless but we love you anyway."

But it's a voice on the end saying there's another one coming up. A girl this time, I think she's called Jewel. What a ridiculous name, but then again she is from district one. She looks up to me with big innocent blue eyes, in her head that's framed with golden waves of hair. Her face is puckered in such a way that she looks rather like a stunned baby. Her mouth forms a perfect "o", like a small child that's fallen down, gotten up and in the split second before they start to cry there is a moment of complete surprise, as if they thought they were invincible and have been sadly mistaken. She wears a gold chain around her neck, her token. It's a cross, with a beaten Christ staring up to the sky, with betrayal caught inside his mouth, biting down on his tongue eternally.

It's obviously very old, the gold is a murky brown now after years of Brasso layering on top of each other. And the harsh bristles of rags rubbing against his face, trying to erase the utter despair reflected in his eyes. He stares at me now, like I can help. But there's nothing I can do. I put my mouth to her ear;

"It's ok; everything is going to be all right."

I close her eyes and I curve the sides of her mouth into a mysterious smile. "She's happy now," I tell myself and I smile a small, sad smile. I strip and scrub her down. And, like the boy from district seven, I press the three middle fingers from my right hand to my mouth and then to hers. It doesn't matter where you come from in the end, we're all human. We all fought. I wheel her into position and wait for the next one, and the next one, and the next one. And each time, I press my fingers to their mouths, planting a bud of faith in each one of them.

One day, Panem will realise what they have to do, until then, I will strip and scrub and I will believe. And one day, I might not have to scrub any longer.


End file.
